Babes in the Wood
by Eloise
Summary: Baby Watchers, lost in London. Young Wesley and his best friend Nigel have a super adventure... STORY COMPLETE
1. Careless Memory

**TITLE: **Babes in the Wood

**AUTHORS:** Eloise and Bethy

**RATING: **PG13

**DISCLAIMER: **Joss and ME own Wes and all things BtVS/AtS. We're only playing with him. We promise not to hurt him. Much. Nigel is a product of Eloise's fevered imagination.

**SPOILERS: **Set post AtS S5, but no real spoilers

**NOTES**: Part 1 of 6. Baby Watchers, lost in London. Title quote from traditional folk song; chapter titles and quotes from various Duran Duran songs. After all, it is the eighties…Huge thanks to my co-writer Bethy for the wonderful plot bunny and the superb writing, and to the lovely Lonely Brit, who did sterling beta work.

'_Oh, don't you remember, a long time ago  
Those two little babes, their names I don't know  
They strayed far away one bright summer's day  
These two little babies got lost on their way'_

_('Babes in the Wood' – Traditional)_

**Prologue – Careless Memory**

_So easy to disturb  
With a thought...  
With a whisper...  
With a careless memory..._

_(Careless Memory – Duran Duran)_

Nigel ffoulkes brushed his hand over the top of the box, and was immediately seized by a paroxysm of coughing that threatened to bring Mrs McAlister into the inner office to offer her assistance. He leaned on the desk and tried to take a deep breath; considered opening the window to let in some fresh air, but given the inner city location of the new Council Offices, the air outside could hardly be described as fresh.

He eyed the door nervously, but the formidable Mrs McAlister remained at her desk, collating invoices and rubber stamping stationary requests. She was an excellent secretary; efficient, organized and supremely confident, but she did remind him somewhat of Matron back at the Academy. His memories of Matron weren't particularly pleasant ones.

He thought briefly of the tall willowy twenty-somethings back in the main office, whose typing was appalling, and whose tea tasted like tar, but who flicked their long hair away from their high-cheek bones and flashed him bone-melting smiles when they murmured "Good morning, Mr ffoulkes…"

Mrs McAlister could type faster than he could dictate, and her tea tasted divine, but he was convinced that her steel grey perm could withstand gale force eight unscathed, and her rare smiles were more bone-chilling than melting. It was the price he paid, he supposed, for the long awaited promotion.

Thirteen years he had slogged down in Prophecies and Translations, constantly overlooked in favour of his better-connected co-workers. The Council had certain standards, and nepotism was one sure way of maintaining them. His applications for field work had been constantly overlooked, his painstaking work on historical lexicography ignored.

And then, slightly over a year ago, he had heard an unconfirmed report that most of his peers had been killed in the explosion at Council Headquarters. Through the grace of a deity he hadn't acknowledged since boyhood, he had been dispatched to attend the Eleventh International Conference on English Historical Linguistics, and had been sunning himself on the extraordinarily appropriately named Costa de la Muerte when he received the news.

He had returned home to find the council in disarray; several generations of watcher families wiped out at a single stroke. Opportunities for promotion were extensive. He continued with this work in the department, as diligently as always, only now his efforts were noticed, commented on. And here he was at last, in his own office, head of the Prophecy and Translations department, reporting directly to none other than Rupert Giles.

He couldn't help the warm blush that suffused his cheeks at the thought. He was rather glad he was alone in his office, considering the physical reaction he was displaying at the mere thought of the Senior Watcher. He straightened his shoulders and chided himself mentally. You're a grown man, Nigel. There's no call to be acting like a giddy schoolboy.

He wiped his eyes, and swallowed a few times, and when no further wheezing occurred, opened the box and began to unpack the books. They were mostly grammars and dictionaries, with the odd archaic text that his previously meagre salary had allowed. However, the final item at the bottom of the box was none of these. It was a small hard backed volume that he had kept with him since his days at the Academy. He opened it, and smiled at the copperplate inscription on the frontispiece.

"Diary of Wesley Wyndam-Pryce, Watcher in Training. (Academic Year 1984-85)"

He flipped forward a few pages and found what he was looking for. There were several pages of neat indigo script, then a single line of text, followed by both their signatures in a rusty-brown ink. He smiled then, rather sadly, the image of his friend suddenly very clear in his mind. He flicked back to the beginning of the account and began to read.

_Journal of Wesley Wyndam-Pryce, concerning the events of 10th-11th of April 1985. _

_We left in the Academy in good spirits, little suspecting what evils would beset us before we returned again to its hallowed halls. The afternoon was mild, warm for early April, and the journey to the station passed in pleasant conversational anticipation of a slap-up tea in Tuffnell Park…_

"Mr ffoulkes?" The office door opened, and Mrs McAlister hovered on the threshold, appointment book in hand.

"Sorry… yes?" He looked up from the account.

"It's Mr Giles, sir. He'd like to see you. At your earliest convenience, sir." Which was McAlister speak for 'Get your arse upstairs to the boss' office pretty bloody sharpish'.

"Um… right. Right away." He closed the notebook rather regretfully and placed it on his desk for further perusal.

Mrs McAlister gave one of her face-creaking smiles and held the door open for him. As he passed her, she put her hand on his arm and stopped him. He froze under her touch and for one awful moment he imagined her dabbing at his face with a moistened handkerchief to remove any unseemly jam splodges. Thankfully she contented herself with the mere adjustment of his tie.

"There you are. That's much better."

"Er… thank you." He escaped into the corridor and made his way to the stair well. He didn't trust the lifts in this place. They had a tendency to deposit their occupants at random floors, bearing little or no relation to the desired destination. Not to mention that the lift rarely hit a floor first time; you considered yourself lucky if you didn't have to jump down or step up several inches to access the corridor.

It was typical of the Council. There was enough of the old guard left to ensure that the new Council building was anything but new. The importance of tradition and ritual were reflected in the very architecture of the structure, a restored early eighteenth century library that oozed history from every hand-carved oak panel and delicately leaded stained glass window. The money for the purchase had almost certainly come from the older established families; which went a long way to explaining the large suite of offices that one Roger Wyndam-Pryce occupied on the top floor.

Rupert Giles' office was not quite so grand, but it was well-known that this was where the true work of the new Council was carried out. Nigel knocked on the door of the outer office, and was ushered in by Mrs Masterson, a secretary in the McAlister tradition. He decided then that the willowy twenty-somethings were matured downstairs in the main offices until their blonde hair was grey enough to perm, and their typing and shorthand skills were matched only by their tea-making abilities.

Mrs Masterson gave him a thin-lipped smile and pressed a button on the telephone. "Mr Giles will see you now." Nigel marvelled at the amount of condescension imbued within that simple phrase. He moved to the large oak door, which was suddenly and unexpectedly opened from the inside.

"Rhodes! Come in, please. There's something I've been meaning to discuss with you."

_Rhodes_. _He knew, he bloody well knew_. Nigel blushed to the very roots of his hair, and followed the older watcher into the inner sanctum.

* * *

**_April 3rd 1985_**

"Wesley!" Nigel skidded round the corner and ran full tilt into Evans Major, who was coming from the direction of their study bedroom. He appeared to be carrying their radio.

"Ah, ffoulkes. Running in the corridor. And yelling. That's two demerits." He waved the radio gleefully in Nigel's face. "Although you're already in enough trouble."

Nigel thought briefly of their housemaster's reaction to this violation of school rules. It wasn't happy thought. But even the contemplation of a painful reunion of his rear end with a cane wielded by the ex-Yorkshire batsman wasn't enough to completely dampen his enthusiasm. He waited until the senior prefect had finished gloating, then scooted into their room to find Wesley sitting glumly on the bed.

"Wesley, guess what?" Nigel waved the letter in his friend's face.

"They found the radio." Said with the sort of gravitas normally reserved for royal death announcements.

"I know, I met Evans, but never mind that now."

"What do you mean never mind that?" Wesley was indignation personified. "You do realize what this means?"

Nigel sighed inwardly, recognizing the signs of one of Wesley's most common conversational motifs.

"My father is going to kill me."

"No, he's not." Nigel sat down on his bed. "How's he going to find out? It's only a radio, Wes. I bet McCrea won't even tell Dr Harrington."

"He always finds out." There was a grim acceptance in Wesley's face, and Nigel felt a pang of sympathy for his friend. His own father had been killed in the line of duty when Nigel was only two years old, so his experience of paternal relationships was rather lacking. He had spent a wonderfully carefree childhood with his mother and younger sister; his first experience of the Council came at age eleven, when his paternal grandfather insisted that he be sent to the Academy, just as his father would have wished.

"You'll thrive, my lad," the old man had affirmed with a vehement pat to his back which had almost sent him sprawling across the entrance hall of the Academy. "Your mother's coddled you far too long. It's about time you fulfilled your destiny."

His destiny, it seemed, was to spend a great deal of time upside down in the third form toilets. Things improved slightly as the years progressed, but he still had moments of desperate heartrending homesickness, when he would press his face into his pillow to stifle his tears.

Wesley never seemed to pine for home, but he understood that Nigel did. He never laughed, never teased him. He'd prop his head on his elbow and whisper in the darkness, soft words of comfort, meaning nothing, and everything. And in return Nigel would tell him about his home in Dorset, with his mum and Izzy, and Wesley would get this wistful faraway look in his eye, almost as if he was homesick for Dorset too.

Nigel knew the Wyndam-Pryces were an old watcher family, with a long and illustrious history, and he gathered that Wesley's father was determined that Wesley should continue in the family tradition. He really didn't envy Wesley one little bit.

He opened the letter and handed it to Wesley, who shoved his glasses up to the bridge of his nose and read it dutifully.

"You lucky sod. A whole weekend." There was undisguised envy in his voice.

Nigel leaned over and punched his arm. "Are you blind?" That was mean, but as his own shortsightedness rivalled Wesley's he didn't really care. "She said I could bring a friend!"

Wesley's forehead wrinkled in a frown. "Who're you going to ask?"

Sometimes he wondered how Wesley could be top of the class but have the common sense of a peanut.

"You, you daft idiot. Who do you think?"

A grin of surprised delight spread across his friend's face, and two pink spots appeared on his cheeks. "Really?"

Nigel nodded and jumped off his bed. "We're going to London. And my Granny is the best cook in the world." That was something of an exaggeration, but considering the standard of food served in the school refectory, Granny's Dundee cake and butterfly buns would seem like Dorchester cuisine.

Wesley's face fell. 'Hang on. This weekend. That's Home Sunday."

He'd forgotten that. The one weekend each month they were allowed out on parole. That meant Wesley would have to go home. _Crap._

"Look, write to your father and tell him you've been invited home with me." He recognized the ridiculousness of his suggestion even before Wesley rolled his eyes.

"Pryce! ffoulkes!" The senior prefect was standing in their doorway, smirking ominously. "Dr McCrea requests the pleasure of your company in his evening study. Unless one of you wants to claim ownership of the radio?"

They answered together. "It's mine." Then grinned at each other. Solidarity in the face of the enemy.

"Fine. Both of you get your arses up there now."

Evans' choice of phrasing was unfortunate, to say the least.

* * *

"Do you think he really was capped for England?" Nigel walked carefully along the corridor. 

"Bloody well feels like it." Wesley moved in a similar fashion. "I swear the man must practice. I think he hit the same spot three times."

Nigel winced sympathetically. "At least you only got the six."

Wesley's eyebrows lifted. "One for flinching?"

Nigel nodded glumly. "As usual."

It was Wesley's turn to grimace in sympathy. "You okay?"

They had finally made it back to their study. Nigel nodded and lowered himself carefully onto his bed, rolling onto his stomach. Wesley, however, paused and reached into his trouser pocket and removed a cream vellum envelope.

"What's that?" Nigel squinted over the top of his spectacles.

"McCrea gave it to me. It came in the late post this afternoon." Wesley turned it over. "It's from home."

Wesley's expression did not change, but Nigel saw his back stiffen just a little. He opened the letter, and scanned the contents quickly, relaxing slightly as he read.

"Is everything okay?"

Wesley nodded curtly. "My father and mother are away this weekend. Father has Council business in Switzerland, and Mum's going with him."

"Oh." Nigel tried to imagine how he'd feel if his mum wrote and told him she didn't want to see him on Home weekend. "I'm sorry."

"No, really, it's fine." Wesley pulled a couple of sheets of foolscap out of the envelope. "Father has sent me some translations to keep me occupied."

"Wesley! You know what this means?" Nigel rolled over and sat up, then leapt up. "Ow! You can come with me to Granny's house!"

Wesley's smile was genuine. "So I can."

"Oh, this is going to be brilliant. She makes the best cakes, and she'll let us watch TV and stay up late." They both stood for a moment, the full realization of their extreme good fortune finally sinking in.

Wesley's face was alight with joy. "Nigel, this is going to be the best weekend ever."


	2. Strange Behaviour

**TITLE: **Babes in the Wood

**AUTHORS:** Eloise and Bethy

**RATING: **PG13

**DISCLAIMER: **Joss and ME own Wes and all things BtVS/AtS. We're only playing with him. We promise not to hurt him. Much. Nigel is a product of Eloise's fevered imagination.

**SPOILERS: **Set post AtS S5, but no real spoilers

**NOTES**: Part 2 of 6. Baby Watchers, lost in London. Once again, huge hugs to my co-writer Bethy and our wonderful beta Lonely Brit. Title quote from the traditional folk song; chapter titles and quotes from various Duran Duran songs. After all, it is the eighties…

**Part 2 – Strange Behaviour**

"_Would someone please explain  
The reason for this strange behaviour  
In exploitation's name  
We must be working for the skin trade"_

_(Skin Trade – Duran Duran)_

They managed not to bounce on the seats, like first-years. No, Wesley and Nigel were men of the world, travelling by train to London for a long weekend. Shame that they had to wear Academy uniforms on the trip down, but school rules demanded it, and apparently Nigel's Granny wanted to see them. Wesley had a pair of acid-washed jeans and trainers shoved in his duffle bag, ready for changing into at Granny's house.

Wesley checked the itinerary. "Right then. 12:44 pm train from Hampshire to London. Check. Get off British Rail train at King's Cross station, 3:20 pm, take Northern line to Tuffnell Park, arrive at Granny's house 3:35 pm. Just in time for tea." He looked over his glasses at Nigel, who was grinning widely, and grinned back. "It's all planned out, and we are well on our way."

"You'll love my Granny, Wes. She's the best Granny in the world." Nigel checked his tickets again.

"I'm sure I will, Nige. You don't know how glad I am."

"What about that translation for your father?"

"Did it yesterday. Since we couldn't listen to the radio." Wes looked a little glum. "How did he find out about it?"

"Dunno. Probably broke his so he took ours." Nigel sighed, then smiled again. "We can get another one. What about a Walkman with an extra headphone set so we can listen at the same time?"

"Aren't those expensive?"

Wesley silently mourned his lack of pocket money. His family wasn't exactly poverty stricken, but Father felt such things were frivolous. "A man should earn his way in the world, my boy," he'd intone portentously, fixing Wesley with one of his sterner glares. "What do you need pocket money for? You'd probably waste it on sweets and that sort of rubbish." His mother always managed to slip him a few quid at the beginning of term, but there wasn't much of that left now.

Nigel shrugged. "We can at least look. I'm sure Granny will take us shopping."

The train ride into London passed quickly, and the two of them relaxed, chatting about their next year. They would finally be in the sixth form, and maybe one of them would make prefect or even Head Boy and then they wouldn't have to hide the radio.

At Kings Cross Station, they followed the signs to the Northern Line. Wesley stuck close to Nigel; they didn't want to lose each other in the Underground. Despite it being daylight, he knew that vampires could stalk them easily in these tunnels.

They did not actually encounter any vampires on their way to the tube, but their journey was far from uneventful. The opportunities for wrong turns and accidental maiming were myriad, what with the crowds that thronged the escalators at every turn, not to mention the suitcase wielding assassins that were posing as mindless tourists. They boarded the train to Tuffnell Park in quiet triumph, thankful to be nursing only bruised shins. Wesley breathed a sigh of relief. Not long now, and they would be stuffing themselves at Granny's table.

"You…do remember the way from the Tube station, right Nigel?" Wesley didn't mean to sound uncertain, and he cleared his throat a couple of times. Stupid voice.

Nigel clapped him on the shoulder. "Of course. Last year Mum even sent us on our own, and we didn't have a single problem." Nigel's confidence made Wesley relax. Still, there were still so many things that could go wrong. Under his breath, he muttered to himself, "Preparation, prepa…"

"…ration, preparation." Nigel joined him. "It's going to be fine. We have prepared for every possibility."

* * *

Nigel's eyes were huge, and he was biting his lip in an effort to keep from crying. The house was locked tight, all the lights were off, and no amount of banging or calling brought Granny to the door. He sat down heavily on the steps, breathing hard. 

Wesley sat next to him, and patted his shoulder, a little awkwardly. "There has to be a reason."

"Why…why would she invite us and then not be here?" Nigel looked up at Wesley. "What if something's happened, and Mum didn't tell me? Or maybe she tried, and we were already on the train, and…and…and…" Nigel dropped his head into his hands and gave one heart-wrenching sob.

"Shhhh Nigel, it's all right. I'm sure there's an explanation." Wesley looked up and around. No one was around…wait. There was a woman going through the gate next door. Spitting image of a Monty Python pepperpot, but any port in a storm.

He called out to her. "Excuse me? Madam?"

She wrestled her shopping bags to the ground, and looked up from her groceries with an annoyed expression. "What are you boys doing here?"

"We came to stay with Mrs. Parke. Do you know where she is?" God, he hated it when his voice broke.

"Went off this morning. Don't know where." Opening her door, she sneered, "You boys best be off, before the police come round again!" The door slammed loudly, shutting off any further contact.

"Police?" Nigel looked up at Wesley. "Do…D'you think something happened?"

"No! No, Nigel, I'm sure she's fine." Wesley racked his brains for what to do next. "I…I think there's a Council house, somewhere…" He took off his glasses and polished them thoroughly, an activity that always seemed to aid his thought processes. "We can go there. They'll help us get back, except…" he moaned softly. "My father is going to kill me."

"What? Why?" Nigel sounded a bit confused.

"I didn't exactly get official permission to come. Their plane left that night, and I didn't have any way to contact them in Switzerland. They didn't even tell me which hotel." Wesley shook his head. "Council house is the last resort."

Nigel gulped. "Right, Wes. Last resort. Don't want you to get into trouble on my account."

Wesley gave him a half-smile. "Thanks. But if it comes down to the Council House or sleeping in the park…"

"We sleep in the park. Hang the vampires!" Nigel was doing his best to sound brave, but his lip was trembling again, probably at the thought of his Granny lying hurt or dead somewhere.

"No, we find a youth hostel and sleep in a room full of American and German college students." Wesley was firm. "How are we doing for cash? And we should check our tickets…maybe we can get back to school early."

Combined, they had just over ten pounds, their train tickets were non-refundable and not valid before noon on Sunday, and they were hungry. Nigel put the tickets and their mutual resources into his blazer pocket.

Wesley considered their options. "If we walk, we can save the Tube fare and maybe get something to eat. I know it won't be your Granny's cooking, but maybe we'll find out what happened to her." He stood and brushed off his trousers. "Come on, Nige. Let's get going."

"I don't know how to get back except by the Tube." But Nigel sounded a little less down now that they were taking action.

"Well, I'm sure we can follow the streets. It can't be that difficult." Wesley pulled Nigel to his feet. "We are supposed to be Watchers, after all."

The two boys walked off, lugging their duffle bags, in completely the wrong direction.

* * *

"Two fat ladies, eighty-eight!" 

Mavis Parke leaned over to her neighbour and screeched over the hubbub. "My grandson's visiting next weekend from school in Hampshire!"

"What?"

"My GRANDSON! VISITING!"

"Oh, you don't have to shout, dearie. M'not deaf, you know."

"He's such a good boy. He does so love my cake and biscuits." Mavis smiled fondly and pulled out a photo of Nigel.

"What?"

"BISCUITS!"

"Looks like a school boy to me. Or was that pass the biscuits?"

Mavis shook her head, put a counter down on a number, then jumped from her seat. "BINGO!"

* * *

They had been wandering around for three hours, and Wesley was fairly sure they should have reached Kings Cross Station by now. They had stopped at Euston Tube Station, where a less then friendly clerk had laughed nastily and then informed them that the last train to Hampshire had departed hours ago. There also didn't seem to be that many youth hostels in this part of the city. 

"Wesley…"

"What, Nigel?" Wesley suspected that they were lost, and was not looking forward to Nigel calling him on it.

"Nothing…just, thanks. For coming. Even though it wasn't how we thought it would be." Nigel patted Wesley on the back. "And…do you think those fellows are following us?"

"Which fellows?" Panic started to rise in Wesley's stomach; butterflies not so much fluttering as tap-dancing while wearing hobnailed boots. He adjusted his duffle bag on his shoulder and snuck a quick glance back.

"The ones with the leather jackets and steel toed boots."

"Yes." Wesley's voice rose quite considerably in pitch. "Yes, I rather think they are."

"And…?" Nigel sounded a little nervous too.

"We should probably run."

"Right."

The two boys sprinted headlong into the crowd that thronged the pavement. They dodged behind a rather prosperous looking gentlemen and his considerably younger companion, and were jostled a little by the Saturday evening crowd. They headed down an alley between a couple of shops which led onto a back street. Somehow, they managed to stay together through the crowd and ran for what seemed like several hours before ducking into what appeared to be a café.

The thugs were nowhere to be seen. Wesley leaned forward and rested his hands on his knees, breathing heavily. "I think we're safe. There's no sign of them."

Nigel seemed less content. He was looking around rather wildly, slapping at his pockets in growing distress.

"Nige, it's okay. We lost them."

Nigel's face was ashen. "Wesley. My wallet's missing."

* * *

He tried to remember the last time he knew he had it. They'd checked their money back at Tufnell Park; then there'd been the guard at the tube station who'd rolled his eyes when they'd shown him their tickets. After that the whole thing had been a bit of a nightmare. Nigel gazed around him, and decided that the nightmare didn't look as if it was going to end any time soon. 

From what he could see, and in this light, that wasn't much, they appeared to be in some sort of club. There was a bar along one side of the smoky room, and a few sparsely populated tables to the other side. The main focus of activity seemed to be located at the bottom of a narrow staircase.

"You're sure it's gone?" The look of utter panic of Wesley's face must have matched his own perfectly.

"Someone's nicked it. Must have lifted it when we ran through the crowd back there." Nigel put his hand on his hip and massaged the stitch in his side.

"Oh, God. My father is going to kill me." Wesley leaned against the door and bit his lip in sudden desperation. Nigel calmed his own panic enough to see the humour in that statement.

"Wesley, if things continue like this, we'll be dead long before your dad ever hears about it." Amazingly enough, this actually seemed to cheer Wes up. He looked around him, then paused.

"Nigel, what's that smell?"

Nigel sniffed obediently. There was a distinctive odour, reminding him somewhat of the boathouse where the diving club gear was stored. "Smells kind of… rubbery."

They both peered down the darkened stairway, but it was difficult to see much, what with the smoke and the dim red lights.

"Ah, I see we have two naughty boys here."

Nigel jumped as a hand fell on his shoulder, and looked over at Wesley, who was clutching his hand over his heart, his face white with terror.

"Out of school without permission." The hand at his shoulder gripped tighter, and Nigel fought to remain upright. Wes looked as if he was about to pass out.

"No, we have permission. Honestly. You can ch-check with Mr McC-Crea." Nigel's tongue seemed to be having trouble forming the simplest of words. He risked a glance over his shoulder and was shocked to see an extremely pretty blonde lady, dressed in a black and white nurse type uniform, not dissimilar to Matron's. Apart from the fact that it was made of rubber, rather than the more traditional starched cotton. And had considerably more chains than was strictly necessary.

"You have permission?" She stepped in front of them, and looked them over thoroughly "Well, than I suppose you'd better go on down, then." She ran a scarlet painted fingernail down Wesley's tie. "Your costumes are great, you know. Very authentic." She leaned in close to whisper conspiratorially. "So many of them are wearing short trousers. It's not a pretty sight."

Wesley puffed out his chest rather huffily. "We haven't worn shorts since the lower fourth."

'Matron' patted his tie soothingly. "Attention to detail. I like it." She steered them both towards the stairs "Well, on you go. If you want me later, just ask for Miss Prision." She gave them an encouraging pat on their backsides and they found themselves walking down the steep staircase.

"She was really nice, wasn't she?" Nigel nudged Wesley's elbow.

"What?" The noise from the room at the bottom of the stairs was making it difficult to hear.

"Miss Prissy-ism. Or whatever. She was nice."

This time Wesley nodded, then leaned over to him. "They must be having some kind of fancy dress party. She thought our uniforms were costumes."

"Oh, God, Wes! A party! They're bound to have food. I'm starving!" Their last meal had been a week old British Rail ham sandwich, curling delicately at the edges, and a shared packet of prawn cocktail crisps that had tasted oddly of salmonella. Wes' face lit up at the mention of food. They quickened their pace and turned the corner at the bottom of the stairs.

It appeared that they had stumbled upon the party. Which was taking place in a school dining hall. _In the ninth circle of hell._

There were grown men dressed in oversized prep school uniforms, complete with shorts and school caps, seated at long low tables. Well, seated was perhaps stretching it a bit. Some were kneeling on the floor beside the benches, while others were bent over the tables, receiving correction from a variety of sources. There were several cane-wielding young ladies clad in St Trinian type uniforms, dispensing justice with not inconsiderable vigour.

Some of the guests were being disciplined not by the St Trinians prefects, but by several younger men, who were dressed in gowns, mortar boards, and not a lot else.

Everyone appeared to enjoying themselves immensely.

Nigel tore his eyes away from the Boschian nightmare and looked at Wesley, whose face was reflecting the same horror that Nigel was experiencing.

"Oh God… this can't be right." Wesley was backing towards the stairs, unable to tear his eyes from the scene. "They're actually enjoying it."

At a table nearby, an enthusiastic prefect delivered a particularly hefty blow to a middle-aged schoolboy's backside and Nigel's own rear-end clenched in empathy. Then he heard Wesley gasp.

"It can't be…!"

"What?" He followed Wesley's gaze to the corner of the room, where a grey-haired schoolboy was standing with his palms braced against the wall, while an auburn-haired prefect spanked him with a wooden spoon.

"It's… it's… Mr Travers."

"You mean Quentin Travers? The new head of department for London?"

Wesley could only nod.

"Are you sure?" Nigel was feeling the urge to giggle insanely.

"He and Father are old friends. They went to Oxford together." Wes looked as it he might be about to lose the little lunch he'd had. "He's been to dinner at our house."

Nigel couldn't help it. He gave snort, and doubled over in silent helpless laughter.

"What? You think this is funny?" Wesley was trying for indignation, but Nigel could hear the hysteria wanting to break free. He pulled Wesley bodily back to the bottom of the stairs.

"Don't let him see you, Wes. Or he might tell your dad."

He didn't really expect the snort of laughter at that. And then Wesley was leaning against the wall, giggling wildly.

"What?" Nigel waited patiently for Wes to recover, and when he continued howling with laughter, nudged him in the ribs. 'What's so funny?"

Finally Wesley wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his blazer, and gulped a breath. "Sorry. I was just thinking of the last time he came to dinner. I knocked a glass of water all over the table, and got a walloping for it." He gave a hiccupping sigh. "I've just realized how jealous Mr Travers must have been."

Nigel began to giggle again, and soon the two of them were convulsing with laughter, barely able to catch a breath.

"Oi! You two!"

They sobered immediately at the sound of the voice. Well, the sound of the voice and the appearance of its owner. Who was about six foot tall, with similar dimensions for breadth. Wearing a dinner suit that might have fitted him when he was younger, but was possibly rather constricting now, considering the way his muscles bulged under the fabric. He folded his massive arms across an equally gargantuan chest, and looked as if he was contemplating GBH.

"Right, you two. Where's your bloody tickets?"

They exchanged glances, and Nigel ran a finger under his collar which suddenly seemed very tight. "Er, the thing is, we got mugged." The lack of negative reaction encouraged him further. "They took our money too."

Wesley nodded vigorously. "You wouldn't happen to know if there's a youth hostel nearby?"

Their inquisitor's eyebrows lifted slowly, approaching a gleaming pate at an almost languorous pace. "Youff hostel?" Then the eyebrows all but disappeared in the folds of the frown that creased his brow. "What age are you?"

Nigel glanced nervously at Wes, who was also looking rather worried. He cleared his throat in the forlorn hope that it would prevent his voice from cracking. "Almost sixteen."

'Bloody 'ell. How d'you get in here?" He unfolded his arms and hooked them around each of their necks. It was rather like being strangled by the Michelin Man. Then they were moving upstairs, so quickly that their feet only touched every third step. Nigel gave up trying to protest and concentrated on getting what little air he could into his compressed lungs.

They arrived back at the top of the stairs, and the boa constricting grip was fractionally lessened. Just long enough for the main entrance to be shoved open, and for them to be kicked out of it.

"Bugger off, the pair of you! Bloody kids!"

As they hit the pavement, they discovered the reason why 'bouncers' are thus named. They landed on their backsides on the wet pavement, then bounced into the gutter beside the kerb just as a large black taxi drove by, sending a deluge of oily water over them.

Wesley removed his glasses and attempted to clean them with the cuff of his shirt, but it was an exercise in futility.

"Oh, sod it,' he sighed, then sat up on the kerb, his elbows on his knees, chin resting on grimy fists.

Nigel nodded. "That was… interesting."

Wesley gave a derisive snort. "They were actually paying for the privilege. The mind boggles." He paused. "I'm soaked through."

"Maybe we should find somewhere and change into our jeans…" Nigel froze. "No." He lowered his head into his hands. "No, no, no."

"What now?" It was amazing how calm Wesley sounded. As if he was resigned to their fate.

"Our duffel bags." Nigel turned and looked back at the club from which they'd just been ejected. Their bags were currently lying at the bottom of the stairway to hell.


	3. On the Roam

**TITLE: **Babes in the Wood

**AUTHORS:** Eloise and Bethy

**RATING: **PG13

**DISCLAIMER: **Joss and ME own Wes and all things BtVS/AtS. We're only playing with him. We promise not to hurt him. Much. Nigel is a product of Eloise's fevered imagination.

**SPOILERS:**initially setpost AtS S5, but no real spoilers. This part set pre series.

**NOTES**: Part 3 of 6.Baby Watchers, lost in London. Title quote from traditional folk song; chapter titles and quotes from various Duran Duran songs. After all, it is the eighties

**Part 3 - On the Roam**

_And if the fires burn out there's only fire to blame (hold back the rain)  
No time for worry cause we're on the roam again (hold back the rain)_

_(Hold Back The Rain" Duran Duran - Rio)_

Despair washed over Wesley. His duffle bag contained his only pair of jeans. The only pair he was allowed. Gone. He wouldn't get another pair until he had outgrown these, and he didn't know if he could count on another growth spurt any time in the near future.

Looking at Nigel, he saw the same feelings of abject misery reflected in his face. They couldn't panic; they'd be dead in a minute if they did.

"Right." Wesley stood up and looked around. A likely alley ran along the side of the club. "Come on, Nigel. We can find another way in, get our bags, and get out before the bouncer finds us." He wished he felt as confident as he sounded.

"What?" Nigel stood and followed Wesley. "What if we get caught?"

"Remember when you left your Latin assignment in the library, and we sneaked back in after lights out? It'll be just like that…only with more…rubber. And women."

"Oh." Nigel smiled at the memory. "That was kind of fun."

"And you were brilliant, Nigel." They strolled into the alley, trying to look nonchalant. Which wasn't easy, wearing saturated school uniforms.

Once in the dank alleyway, though, Wesley remembered the lecture on "Urban Vampires: Nocturnal Habitats and Preferred Hunting Grounds" and realized that this alley was up there with secluded cemeteries as a preferred hunting ground. He met Nigel's gaze, and they both nodded simultaneously.

"We need stakes."

Spotting a wooden packing case a little further into the alley, Wesley hoped they wouldn't become dinner before they were able to arm themselves.

Wesley stomped on part of the packing case, and Nigel helped him. Together, they pulled apart the wood supports and managed to get several splinters, a torn shirt cuff, but ultimately a couple of reasonably serviceable improvised stakes. Thus armed, they continued down the alley, looking for a back door.

Turning the corner to the back of the building, Wesley saw a dim light over double doors at the top of a short rusted metal staircase. Smiling, he beckoned to Nigel. They could get in, as long as it wasn't locked.

They were about to make their ascent when the door at the top of the stairs gave the sort of creak that is normally reserved for the sound effects in really cheesy horror movies. As it opened, Wesley grabbed Nigel by the rather damp scruff of his neck and dived behind some dustbins, scaring a stray cat that yowled and streaked off into the night.

"Damn cats." There was a soft sound, as of fabric moving, then the unmistakable noise of a lighter came from below the light. Together, the boys peeped between the dustbins at the figure smoking in the alleyway. The lamplight glinted off the blonde hair of…Miss Prision. Wesley nudged Nigel, who let out his breath in a quiet sigh of relief. She was at least a friendly face. Reaching a tacit agreement to seek her help, the young Watchers stood up and walked shamefacedly over to her.

It took a minute before she noticed them. "You two get lost?"

Wesley shook his head. "We got thrown out."

She peered at them closely, then quirked an amused eyebrow. "You really are still at school, aren't you?"

They nodded.

She snickered. "No wonder you looked better than most of those old coots in there." Dragging on her cigarette, she breathed out a plume of smoke. "And you're back here because…"

"We dropped our bags, Miss." Wesley looked down at his shoes, expecting an outburst at his clumsiness.

"When the bouncer threw us out." Nigel couldn't look up either.

"Algernon's all right—but if you're under age and get caught here, we could be closed down." She offered them the pack of cigarettes, and Wesley and Nigel exchanged glances, then shook their heads glumly. Miss Prision shrugged and pocketed the pack in the rather ordinary raincoat she wore over her matron's outfit. "And what would the captains of industry do with themselves then, I ask you?"

Wesley and Nigel shrugged; they didn't think much about captains of industry.

She took one last drag on the cigarette, stomped it out, and smiled. "Look, I'll track down your bags and bring them out here, okay?" She winked and disappeared into the club.

Looking at each other, Wesley and Nigel heaved a sigh of relief. They could get their bags, and perhaps Miss Prision could point them in a safer direction.

Wesley's stomach growled audibly, and Nigel's answered, just as vocal. From inside the club they could hear music, neatly counterpointed by the faint sound of whacking. Despite his growing hunger, Wesley couldn't help but smile. "Travers," he whispered, when Nigel looked at him questioningly.

Nigel snorted, and the two boys were laughing again, holding their sides and rocking in mirth.

About twenty minutes later, the door opened again, and Miss Prision came out, holding their bags.

"Thank you so much, Miss!" Nigel was grinning like a loon, and Wesley couldn't help doing the same. Everything was going to be alright now.

Wesley agreed. "You've done so much…"

"It's no trouble. Just…don't come back for a few years, understand?" They both nodded vigorously; embarrassed that she would think they would even want to come back. Wesley was fairly sure he would never frequent such a club.

"Now, there's a pub, 'The Angel', over on St Giles High Street, a couple of streets from here. Lots of students, so you should be able to find someone to take you in for the night, or help you contact your families." She flashed them a heart-melting smile, and kissed each of the boys on the cheek, leaving them blushing and stammering, then vanished back into the club.

Wesley and Nigel walked into the night, neither of them now quite so aware of their damp clothes as they had been a few moments before.

* * *

"What time is it, Wes?"

"About tennish."

"I'm…a little tired."

"Me too. And hungry."

"Don't talk about it."

"Well, if it's any consolation, a human being can go for three weeks without food, though only three days without water. I think we'll be back at school well before then."

"Wesley, that didn't really help."

"Sorry."

They walked for a bit further, then Nigel pointed up at a street sign in animation. "Look, St Giles Street!" He grinned broadly. "Or should I say Ripper."

"Very funny." Wesley thought involuntarily of the photograph of the 1972 1st XI cricket team, nestling between the trophy cabinets in the main hall. Specifically of one R Giles (Cpt.), smiling out of the front row, his tanned arms folded across his broad chest.

"Look, there it is! The Angel!" Nigel actually managed to speed up a little bit.

Wesley followed. "Oh good." Stopping, he realized something. "Wait, Nigel!"

Turning, Nigel looked on confused as Wesley rooted through his duffle bag. "What are you doing?"

"Trying to come up with enough change for a coke or something, at least until we can get some help."

"Oh," Nigel started checking his bag as well. "Makes sense."

Wesley found an Isle of Man fifty pence piece that he'd been saving, and a few coppers; while Nigel's duffle bag yielded the princely sum of ninety seven pence. Enough for a couple of cokes and maybe a bag of crisps.

Cautiously entering the pub, Wesley breathed a sigh of relief. Normal pub crowd, similar to The Spread Eagle in the village, if a bit heavier on the twenties side. David Bowie crooned to his china girl in the background. A group of men were playing darts for money near the back. The malty scent of spilled Sam Smith's and stale cigarette smoke assaulted his nose, causing a violent sneeze.

"Bless you." Nigel said absently, as he gazed with wide eyes around the pub.

They found a table near the back, then Nigel went to purchase the drinks. Wesley watched the darts game with interest. The dark-haired young man who seemed to be in charge was wearing tight black leather trousers and an open necked white shirt. The background music changed quite appropriately to "Wild Boys", and Wesley smiled to himself. The fellow was a skilled player, and won the game easily, grinning cockily as he collected the cash. Wheels started turning in Wesley's head.

Nigel returned with two cokes and a packet of cheese and onion crisps which Wesley fell upon like a starved wolf.

"What're you looking at?" Nigel sat down and took a gulp of his drink. Wesley shoved another handful of crisps into his mouth and waved his hand vaguely at the dart board behind them.

Nigel followed Wesley's gaze to the dart game, and attempted to extricate some crisps from the packet. There was a brief tussle, then Nigel snatched the crisps up and emptied the remainder of the bag into his mouth. "Oh God, I'm so hungry. If only we had enough money for fish and chips."

Wesley groaned softly. "I think I'd be willing to sell my body for a bag of chips."

Nigel rolled his eyes. "Let's hope it doesn't come to that."

Wesley looked over at the dart board again. "He's quite good, you know. The fellow in the white shirt."

Nigel looked thoughtful. "You could beat him, I bet. You beat everyone in the junior common room, and even some of the sixth form."

Wesley shook his head. "But we don't have anything to bet with. I doubt that fellow would play for anything but money."

Nigel slumped in the chair and rested his chin on his hands, watching as the man pocketed the cash. "I…wonder where Granny could have gone." After the recent excitement, he had obviously managed to temporarily forget about his Granny's disappearance, but now that they were (relatively) safe and sitting down, the sorrow had crept up on him again.

Wesley tried to reassure him. "I'm sure she's fine. It's probably some sort of mix-up - happens all the time."

Nigel frowned and sucked on the rim of his glass, clearly not comforted.

The little group around the darts board moved back, and the winner made his way past them to the bar, pocketing his winnings as he walked. Now that they could see his face clearly, Wesley realized he was a bit older than he'd first suspected. He was perhaps in his late twenties, but it was hard to tell. There were soft lines around his mouth and eyes that spoke of a life full-lived. Though not necessarily well-lived.

He carried his pint back to the corner, but seemed to stumble as he approached their table, splashing Taddy Porter over the empty packet of crisps.

"Sorry about that, lads." He leaned over and soaked up the spill with a stray beer mat. "Why the long faces?" Wesley couldn't quite place his accent, but there was a touch of Home Counties under the mockney.

"We're fine." Wesley nudged Nigel under the table, and he straightened up. "Thank you." Politeness was second nature to Wesley, ingrained as it was at an early age, but something about this fellow set off warning bells in his head. He appeared to be nice enough, but he seemed to possess a quality that was rather…predatory. Wolfish even. Glancing across at the opposite mirrored wall, he was relieved to see the dark headed man reflected in its grimy surface. Wesley nodded to the dart board.

"You play a good game."

The man set his pint down and leaned back against the table, waving off the compliment casually. "Just a hobby. Like to keep my hand in." He smiled pleasantly. "Name's Ethan." He lifted the glass and sipped at it, flexing his free hand on the table.

"I'm Wesley, and this is Nigel. Nice to meet you." The words were out of his mouth before Wesley could stop them. Here they were, lost and broke in the middle of Soho, and he was blabbing their names to the first stranger who stopped to talk to them.

Ethan smiled. "Fancy a game?" His fingertips twitched as he mimed throwing a dart.

Nigel perked up. "Come on, Wesley. Just for fun?"

Wesley stared at Nigel in abject horror and hissed, "You know why we can't…"

Leaning back, Ethan sipped again and raised an eyebrow, casual arm outstretched. "Why ever not?"

Wesley pondered the depths of his coke, but before he could say anything, Nigel burst out. "We're broke. We got mugged." Astounded, he gaped at Nigel, who bit his lip hard. What on earth could have possessed him that he would actually say something like that to a complete stranger?

Ethan smiled in concerned sympathy. "Nothing to be ashamed of, boys. London can be a pretty dodgy place." He leaned over and glanced at Wesley's watch. "Tell you what. One game. I'll stake thirty quid against that watch."

The watch was a birthday present from his mother. It wasn't the Swatch Wesley had secretly hoped for, but it was nice; had bold Arabic numbers instead of the Roman numerals favoured by his father, and the back engraved with his name and birthday. It was white gold and easily worth more than fifty pounds…but they were in desperate dire straits. Money for nothing…

Wesley took a deep breath, hoping to quell the nausea at gambling his watch. He didn't really fancy the idea of explaining to his father what had happened to it if he lost. Then again, he didn't much fancy the alternative idea of explaining to this father how they came to be lost and penniless in the middle of London, and thirty pounds would certainly be enough for a hostel for the night. Sighing deeply, he nodded, and took off the watch, placing it flat on the table.

Nigel grinned. "You can do it, Wes!"

Weakly smiling at Nigel, he took a sip of coke, and wished vaguely for something a little more bracing. What the heck had he got himself into?


	4. Hungry Like the Wolf

**TITLE: **Babes in the Wood

AUTHORS: Eloise and Bethy

**RATING: **PG13

**DISCLAIMER: **Joss and ME own Wes and all things BtVS/AtS. We're only playing with him. We promise not to hurt him. Much. Nigel is a product of Eloise's fevered imagination.

**SPOILERS: **Set post AtS S5, but no real spoilers

**NOTES**: Part 4 of 6. Baby Watchers, lost in London. Huge thanks and hugs to my wonderful co-writer Bethy and our best beta girl Lonely Brit. Title quote from traditional folk song; chapter titles and quotes from various Duran Duran songs. After all, it is the eighties…

**Part 4 – Hungry Like the Wolf**

_I strut on the line, in Discord and Rhyme_

_I howl and I whine I'm after you_

_Mouth is alive, all running inside_

_and I'm Hungry Like The Wolf._

_("Hungry Like The Wolf" - Duran Duran)_

It was almost too easy. Ethan was on the verge of reconsidering; the challenge was minimal. The way that Nigel had folded under the truth charm was almost pitiful. But they were baby watchers; he recognized the badge on their blazers. And that meant they were fair game. Council of Bloody Wankers.

Not that he was bitter, or anything. Ripper had made his choice. Turned his back on the dark side and gone back to being a good little Council boy. Spending all day in the arsehole of the British Museum cataloguing manuscripts, then spending all night studying for his shiny merit badge of Watcher goodness. Back to being the dutiful son; the heir to all that was good and fair and utterly banal.

Ethan sighed under his breath and picked up the darts. Time to corrupt the young and innocent.

The kid, as it turned out, was good, better than he'd suspected, what with the glasses and the way he tripped over his shoelace as he approached the oche. Ethan threw first, the dart landing in seventeen, next to the outer ring of the bullseye. Wesley adjusted his glasses, in an alarmingly Giles-like fashion, then proceeded to land his dart in the outer ring.

Wesley removed his dart and looked up enquiringly. "501? Straight in, double out?"

Ethan frowned slightly. He didn't like the way the familiar words just rolled off the boy's tongue. Perhaps there was more challenge in this than he'd suspected. "Fair enough."

Wesley threw his darts in quick succession, barely pausing to calculate his score. Twenty, treble seventeen and nineteen. Left him at four hundred and eleven. Ethan couldn't help the low whistle, and a deep blush suffused the back of Wesley's neck.

Ethan stepped up casually and prepared to throw. He contemplated using a little luck spell, but decided against it. Even baby Watchers had some training in magics, and they'd probably notice anything too blatant. He was fairly sure he could out-throw this teenager. He scored seventy-five. Respectable enough, but not enough to beat the child.

Wesley threw again, this time knocking a ton off his total. Over at their table, the Nigel kid was practically squirming with joy. He gave Wesley a big thumbs up signal and downed the last of his coke. Cocky little prat.

Ethan silently recited the luck charm and wiped the smile off Nigel's face as he threw a ton twenty. The tables nearest the dart board had become strangely quiet, as they watched the drama unfold.

Wesley's face had paled, but he stepped back up to the oche and pushed his glasses onto the bridge of his nose. Ethan narrowed his eyes. Was this child playing him for a sucker? He cast a divination charm, but there was no trace of any magic but his own. Still…

Wesley matched his ton twenty, leaving a hundred and ninety-one. There was a hushed gasp of appreciation, Ethan knew he had fleeced too many of the patrons too often to win any kind of sympathy.

His next round took him down to a hundred and ninety-six. He cursed inwardly, as even the luck charm wasn't enough to beat this little upstart.

Wesley did the glasses touch again and threw double nineteen, treble seventeen, outer ring. The little sod was a ringer. Ethan silently chanted a slightly more potent luck charm, and this time managed to take a hundred and thirty off his score. Sixty-six left.

He watched as Wesley prepared to throw again. Double twenty. Three. Bugger it. He'd had enough. There was no way in hell he was letting this jumped up little watcher boy beat him. As Wesley raised his dart, Ethan prepared a subtle clumsiness charm to prevent the dart from landing in the double sixteen. A hand clamped down on his shoulder.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you."

Momentarily distracted, Ethan looked away from Wesley and into the fist that connected firmly with his nose.

Wesley threw his final dart. Through a haze of pain, Ethan heard a dull roar as the dart landed in the green. The child had won. The gawky, awkward watcher brat had beaten a master of Chaos. He was never going to live this down. And he was going to kill the bloody sod who'd punched him in the face.

He blinked through the red mist and saw the two brats staring in gaping awe at him. Or more precisely behind him.

Ethan clasped a hand over his damaged nose, and turned round.

There, looking tall, strong, and not a little pissed off, stood Rupert Giles.

Nigel stepped away from the table, avoiding the puddle of coke that had resulted from his triumphant leap when Wes nailed the double sixteen. _It couldn't be him._ He reached up and adjusted his glasses in case that might change the current view through the lenses. No, still Rupert Giles.

He sidled over to Wesley, who was doing a very convincing impression of a startled goldfish. "Wes…" he wasn't sure what he wanted to ask. He had the insane desire to start quoting Bogart, but the whole '_all the bars in all the world'_ speech seemed a little over the top. This was London, the man worked here; it was not unexpected that he would frequent a pub such as this one.

Wesley just nodded dumbly, clearly transfixed by the man's presence. And there was no doubt, the man had presence. Not that they had expected anything less. This was the legendary Ripper, the subject of so many whispered conversations after lights out. The rebel, the black sheep, fallen from grace to the dark side. And here he was, in the flesh, punching the daylights out of the guy who'd been trying to hustle them.

Nigel managed to get his mouth closed, and watched as Ripper gathered the Ethan fellow by his shirtfront and hauled him close. There was an intense whispered conversation that he dearly wished he could make out, and then Ethan was abruptly released. He reached into his jacket pocket, and very reluctantly produced his wallet. Then peeled off three notes and handed them over to Wesley, scowling dreadfully.

Beside him, Wesley made a soft sound of surprise, then breathed what sounded suspiciously like a prayer of thanksgiving. "Thirty pounds, Nige."

Thirty pounds was more money than either of them had ever possessed. He leaned over to look at the tenners, and found himself almost mesmerised by the notes. Wesley had stopped praying and was now reciting the menu of the local chippy under his breath.

"Cod and chips. Gravy chips. Mushy peas. Battered sausage…"

"Right you two. What the bloody hell are you doing in Soho?"

Nigel's spirits sagged just a little. Having sent this Ethan fellow packing, their saviour's voice wasn't as genial as he'd expected. To be honest, he sounded extremely irritated. Not totally dissimilar to their housemaster's tone, on discovery of the illicit radio.

Wesley's face coloured dark red, and Nigel felt his own cheeks brighten. They looked at each other sheepishly.

"Um… do you know us?" Wesley's voice trembled, and he chewed his bottom lip worriedly.

Giles gave an exasperated sigh. "Not personally, thank God. Just recognize the uniforms. The wearing of which, incidentally, is not recommended for decent pub crawls. Tends to alert the bar staff to the fact that you are actually under eighteen."

Wesley breathed out, clearly relieved to have dodged a bullet.

"What are your names anyway?" Giles folded his arms over his chest and eyed them sternly.

This wasn't fair. He was sounding less like a groundbreaking rebel and more like a school master with every passing remark.

"Nigel… uh… Rhodes," he answered, then winced inwardly at his pathetic choice of pseudonym.

Wesley shot him a look of eternal gratitude. "I'm Wes le… Taylor." Nigel hadn't thought that Wes could have blushed any deeper, and yet he did.

It was clear from the twitch at the corner of his mouth that Giles was fighting laughter. "A couple of wild boys, then. Well, Mr Rhodes and Mr Le Taylor, I think I'd better get you two out of here, before you get mugged or enchanted or end up in some godforsaken den of vice."

"Two out of three isn't bad."

Nigel bit back a snigger at Wesley's whispered aside.

Giles whirled on his heel, and waved his hand imperiously, signalling them to follow him. They obeyed, trooping behind him to the bar, where he lifted a worn leather flying jacket that they would possibly have sold their souls to own. They watched in wondering awe as he leaned over and whispered something to a frighteningly beautiful girl, who gave him a doe-eyed look of adoration and tilted her perfect chin in expectation of a kiss.

Giles acquiesced, bent down and kissed her firmly, then crooked his finger at them, motioning to the door. They obeyed meekly, and stood by the door as he bid his farewell, apparently in French.

"God, he's just so…" Wesley was shaking his head in bewildered admiration.

"Cool." Nigel affirmed, marvelling at the ease with which Giles extricated himself from the embrace.

"The man is cool."

* * *

"D'you think he'll tell?" Wesley leaned over to Nigel, chewing his lip anxiously. They were standing outside the pub, waiting for their saviour to take his leave. 

"He won't tell." Nigel was certain of it. "He's Ripper." He gave a decisive nod, as if the matter was settled.

"I know, but even so…" Wesley frowned deeply. "If the council finds out…"

Nigel mouthed the affirmation of his father's murderous intent even as Wesley pronounced it. He patted Wesley's shoulder. "If he tells the Academy there'll be nothing left of us for your Dad to kill."

Wesley pondered this briefly. "You're probably right. Why would he tell the Council? He is Ripper."

It was at that exact moment that Ripper strode out the door and fixed them with a horribly authoritarian glare. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't turn you in to Council Headquarters this very minute."

They both swallowed, and Wesley lost all the colour from his previously scarlet cheeks. Nigel managed to meet the wrathful eyes. "His dad will kill him." He pointed to Wesley, who nodded slowly, as if slightly dazed.

Nigel wasn't sure, but he thought he might have detected a tiny crack in the stern visage. They might just get out of this alive. If they were very lucky.

"I see. And what about you?" Giles raised an eyebrow at Nigel.

"Um… Dr McCrea will kill me?" Nigel didn't like to think too deeply about that possibility.

A broad grin spread across the older man's face. "You're in De Bury House. That was my old house."

Nigel risked a glance at Wes, who was staring at Giles with ill-concealed surprise. As if the entire school didn't know exactly which house, which dormitory, which exact study bedroom Ripper had occupied. Did the man not know he was spoken of in hushed tones?

'"Old Banger still hitting the boundaries then?" There was no longer any harshness in his tone, he sounded almost sympathetic.

"Did he really play for England?" Wesley had regained a little colour and was looking steadier on his feet.

"England, my arse." Giles grinned. "Sorry, poor choice of words. He played for Yorkshire. Once."

Nigel stifled a giggle, but unfortunately the rumble in his stomach was slightly more audible.

"When did you last eat?"

"We had lunch on the train." This time their stomachs growled in unison.

"You poor sods." Giles pulled his leather jacket tighter and shoved his hands into his pockets. "There's a reasonable chippy at the end of my road. Come on."

Nigel and Wesley slung their duffle bags over their shoulders and followed Ripper into the night.

* * *

They sat in blissful indolence, chips still wrapped in page 3 of The Sun, bottles of HP sauce and Jolt Cola on the floor next to the couch. That alone would have been enough to have earned them a visit to their housemaster's study, but they were also watching telly. It was half past ten on a Saturday night and they were watching Channel 4. _The forbidden channel. _

Nigel picked idly at his battered cod and grinned over at Wesley, who was dipping his chip into a pool of brown sauce in the centre of his newspaper. Wesley grinned back.

"What time is your train tomorrow?" Their host was flipping through a pocket timetable that was balanced precariously on his over-laden desk.

Wesley swallowed his chip urgently, and sat up straight, shoving his glasses up to the bridge of his nose and spilling a few chips into his lap. "Um…sorry."

Giles sighed. "Relax. It's not a test." He looked at Nigel over the top of his glasses. "Is he always this jumpy?"

Nigel thought of Wesley's general demeanour when in the presence of his elders. "Pretty much." He dodged the thump that Wesley aimed at his arm.

"Boys, I'd appreciate it if you didn't spill sauce on my couch. I've just had it steam-cleaned."

"Sorry, Mr Giles." Wesley set his chips down on the coffee table in front of them.

There was another sigh from behind the desk. "Please, stop calling me mister."

Wesley and Nigel exchanged glances. As if that was going to happen. It had taken a great deal of effort not to address him in tones of reverence, and Nigel could actually feel the unspoken 'sir' that Wes put at the end of every sentence.

"Okay." Nigel added 'Mr Giles' under his breath. "Our train leaves Kings Cross at one forty-five."

Giles flipped through the timetable. "Right. Camden Town is still closed then, you'll have to go through Mornington Crescent."

They reacted simultaneously. Nigel mouthed 'Euston Clauses' at Wesley, who whispered 'Northern Line rule' back. They both tried desperately to stifle their giggles.

The timetable was dropped onto the desk. "Oh, for heaven's sake. Spare me the "I'm Sorry I Haven't A Clue" references. You're what – fifteen?"

Nearly sixteen, Nigel wanted to protest, but instead he nodded silently.

"And you're listening to Radio 4?" He shook his head in bemused wonder. "The youth of today. When I was your age I was listening to contraband Peel and sneaking out of school to see T-Rex at Glastonbury."

They looked at each other, the familiar feeling of awe enveloping them once again.

"You really sneaked out of school?" Wesley was trying to sound nonchalant, and failing completely.

"I forged a letter from my Great Aunt Matilda. Inviting me to Devon for the weekend." Giles smiled wistfully, as if in dim remembrance. "Would have worked perfectly, if she hadn't turned up at school to take me out for tea that Sunday afternoon."

They both winced in unison; personal acquaintance with the formidable right arm of their housemaster made their sympathy even more heartfelt.

"Yes, that was rather unfortunate." Giles flipped open a book and pulled a pen out of a novelty mug that sat on his desk. "Couldn't sit for a week. Bloody worth it, though. First ever Glastonbury..." His gaze wandered to the corner of the room, where a guitar rested against a bookcase stacked randomly with ancient texts and an impressive selection of vinyl LPs. He sighed heavily. "So why did you two sneak out?"

Nigel felt a blush suffuse his cheeks. "We were supposed to go to my Granny's for the weekend."

Giles snorted softly. "History repeats. Now why did you really sneak out? Duran Duran at Wembley?"

His blush deepened. "No, really. Granny invited me to stay. And to bring Wes." He hated the look of pity on Rupert Giles' face.

"So what happened?"

Nigel felt the panic rise again in his chest, and he swallowed nervously. "When we got there, she was gone. The house was all locked up and she was nowhere to be found." Wes reached over and gave his shoulder a comforting squeeze.

"Anyone know where she went?" Giles had already closed the text he had been half-heartedly reading.

Nigel choked back a sob. "No. She's disappeared without a trace."

"Where is your Granny's house?"

"Tuffnell Park. Number 37 Montpelier Road."

Giles stood up and went over to table by the door, which provided a home for several large books, two sharpened stakes, a half bottle of Glenfiddich, an obviously purloined Sam Smiths ash tray, three cigarette lighters and a telephone.

He flipped through a small address book. "I know a guy whose Dad is a milkman in that area. He's a bass player, mostly does session stuff."

Nigel's eyebrows rose at the idea of an aging bassist doing a milk round.

"My friend is the bassist, not his dad. He probably has your Granny on his daily route." Giles paused. "His dad, not my friend. Look, I'll just give him a call and see if his dad knows what's happened to your Granny.

"Gosh, thanks, Mr Giles!" Nigel hated the fact that he sounded as if he had stepped from the pages of a Famous Five mystery, but he could barely control his excitement.

Giles held up his hand to stem the effusive gratitude. "Really. It's nothing." He dialled a number and tapped his hand against the ashtray. As soon as the phone was answered, Giles' whole demeanour changed. Gone was the RP accent and straight-laced Watcher. He slouched against the wall and drawled an East London sneer into the mouthpiece.

"Col, it's Ripper…. Nah, she buggered off. Ended up with that French bird… the one at Nicky's party last week." There was a pause, and then Giles gave a truly dirty laugh. "Yeah, right."

Nigel nudged Wesley and mouthed the word "Ripper" silently.

Wes shushed him frantically, waving his hand wildly at their host, managing in the process to knock over the bottle of cola. Giles placed his hand over the phone and gave them a stare that was bone-chilling in its Ripper-ness. They shut up.

"I'll see she gets the message… Your dad still do the milk round in Tuffnell Park?... Yeah, well, mate of mine needs some spare cash and is looking for some easy Breaking and Entering. You find out if anyone's away at the minute? Thanks."

He covered the mouthpiece again and switched to his plumy watcher tone. "He's just checking." Then turned back to the phone. "Yeah… yeah, right. Number 37. Gone to Margate for the weekend. Won't be back till Tuesday." Giles nodded. "Cheers, Col. Owe you one."

He put down the phone and smiled triumphantly. "Would your Granny suffer from senile dementia?"

Nigel remembered an interestingly flavoured pavlova where Granny had added garlic vinegar instead of the ordinary cider kind. "Well, she can be a bit scatter-brained."

"Seems like she forgot you were coming this weekend and went to Margate to play Bingo."

"Thank goodness for that!" Nigel gave Wesley a look of consternation, and Wesley hastened to explain. "At least she's not dead. Or in hospital," he added lamely.

Giles had wandered into the kitchen; they heard the familiar sounds of the kettle boiling, and the distinctive click of a lighter.

"God, he really is Ripper," Wesley stage-whispered, and Nigel nodded emphatically, lost in admiration.

"Whiskey for breakfast…" Wesley breathed, his eyes on the half bottle of scotch on the telephone table.

"Forty a day habit…" Nigel answered, nodding avidly.

"Boring researcher by day, rebel rock musician by night…" They both eyed the guitar reverentially.

Giles poked his head around the kitchen door. "You boys want hot chocolate before bed?"

They turned to their saviour, who had a jar of ovaltine and a spoon in his hand.

"Yes, please. Mr Giles. Thank you very much," they chorused in unison.


	5. Watching Man

**TITLE: **Babes in the Wood

**AUTHORS:** Eloise and Bethy

**RATING: **PG13

**DISCLAIMER: **Joss and ME own Wes and all things BtVS/AtS. We're only playing with him. We promise not to hurt him. Much. Nigel is a product of Eloise's fevered imagination.

**SPOILERS: **Set post AtS S5, but no real spoilers. This part set pre series.

**NOTES**: Part 5 of 6. Baby Watchers, lost in London. Once again, huge hugs to my co-writer Bethy and our wonderful beta Lonely Brit. Chapter titles and quotes from various Duran Duran songs. After all, it is the eighties…

**Part 5 – Watching Man**

_Here in the shadows where we stand  
watching lady, watching man_

_(Hothead – Duran Duran)  
_

Wesley awoke to the rather unfamiliar but not unwelcome scent of sausages frying. Slowly, he opened his eyes and took stock. Rather than any of the familiar beds where he might wake up, he was on a pull-out sofa-bed. Nigel was next to him, drooling into the pillow and snuffling softly. Groping around for his glasses, he rather fuzzily thought that this must be a dream.

Once his vision was less impaired, other realizations popped into his head. He was in the flat of the legendary Ripper, in London, and his hero was cooking breakfast. Despite the late-night dinner, he was starving. A glance at his watch—not lost to a hustler, thanks to Mr. Giles—revealed that Wesley and Nigel slept later than they ever had before. It was nearly nine o'clock.

Stealthily, he eased out of the bed and padded over to the kitchen. There he was, Rupert Giles, wearing sweatpants and a faded to grey Ramones t-shirt. His hair was sticking up in all directions, much like Wesley's own, and a cigarette dangled precariously from the corner of his mouth. Awe washed over him at the marvel that was Rupert Giles. Cooler than David Bowie, he truly was.

Mr. Giles looked up and gave a cocky half-grin around the cigarette. "You're awake then?"

Wesley nodded. "Nigel's still sleeping."

"No I'm not." Nigel yawned from behind him.

"Well you _were_."

Mr. Giles eyed them, still with the gentle smirk on his face. "I see the Academy approved pyjamas haven't changed. Come on then, sit down." Nigel took one of the stools at the breakfast bar.

"Can I help?" Wesley wanted to make a good impression.

Ripper ground out his cigarette as the kettle started to sing. "Fill up the pot, then, it's nearly ready. Toast will be done in a minute."

As Wesley filled the teapot, Mr. Giles loaded three plates with eggs and sausages. "You boys take milk and sugar?" At their nods, he went to the fridge and pulled out the milk, then went to a cupboard and took out Tiptree's Little Scarlet and Oxford marmalade. "Lucky for you boys, one of the girls decided I needed feeding up."

So, clearly Mr Giles had been expecting to entertain someone else for breakfast. The two of them applied themselves to the meal in a slightly embarrassed silence, until Wesley finally blurted out "Did you say something about toast?" At that moment, the toaster popped.

"You know, you two really shouldn't have come with me so easily. I could have been a vampire." Mr. Giles arranged the toast and butter on a plate and brought it over to his guests.

Wesley shook his head. "You had a reflection."

Nigel added, "Plus, you…" he stammered and blushed, his voice tailing off. Wesley knew exactly what he was thinking; he was thinking it too. _You are a legend at De Bury._

"Were captain of the cricket team! Your picture is up in the trophy case." Wesley jumped in. It wouldn't do to be seen as hero-worshipping children. _Which of course they were._

Giles smiled in reminiscence. "That was a good year. You boys play?" Slowly, he drew them out, asking about classes, teachers, and whether or not they liked the idea of being Watchers. The whole radio confiscation story came out, and Giles winced at their punishment.

In the middle of a conversation about whether it was easier to learn spoken Sumerian from Baker or Davidson, the phone rang. Picking up the kitchen extension, their host answered, "Giles here."

Wesley was once again awed. He answered the phone with, not a mundane 'Good Morning,' but with his last name. Someday, he would do that.

Mr. Giles didn't sound happy, though. He moved into the other room, leaving the boys to stare at each other, wide eyed.

"He's cool even in the morning." Nigel whispered.

Wesley nodded as he bit into the toast. "No one is ever going to believe we spent the night here."

Mr. Giles hung up. "Bastard." He stalked into the kitchen, muttering and swearing. "Better get moving, boys. Travers has called me in to work on my day off. Bloody hell."

At the mention of Travers, Nigel and Wesley looked at each other with huge eyes and collapsed into giggles.

"What is so very funny?" Mr. Giles sounded pissed off. Wesley tried to explain.

"We were running away from some punks…"

"…scary, really scary…"

"…and that's when Nigel lost the money…"

"…mugged, you git, or pickpocketed…"

"…and we hid in a café…"

"…only it wasn't a café, it was a club…"

"…and this lady in a rubber matron's outfit sent us in…"

"…Miss Prision, she was nice…"

"…and when we got down the stairs…"

"…we saw Mr. Travers in _short trousers_…"

"…getting spanked with a wooden spoon, and it looked like it really hurt…"

"…and we had to hide…"

"…because he knows my dad, and I would _definitely_ be killed if he saw me…"

"…and then we got thrown out into a puddle by the Algernon…"

"…he's the bouncer…"

"Quiet!" Mr. Giles interrupted their hysterical recitation. "You mean to say you stumbled into the Dante Club and saw Travers there?"

The boys nodded fiercely, still giggling.

Affronted at his own reaction, Wesley pulled himself up straight and tried not to laugh again. "I couldn't believe it."

Nigel didn't help; he kept looking at Wesley and all it took was one quirk of the mouth to set them off. Through his laughter, Wesley vaguely registered that Mr. Giles was laughing too. The 'holding his sides, unable to breathe properly' type of laughing.

They made Rupert Giles laugh. They had made _Ripper l_augh.

Finally, the spasms trickled off, and Giles wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.

"Thank you, boys. Now, we have to get cracking…"

* * *

Dressed in jeans, they realized that their school clothes were in no fit state to be worn, due to their unfortunate drenching. Since they would be risking another caning for travelling out of uniform, Mr. Giles took them to the local laundrette, where they hastily washed and dried the clothes. As it was Sunday morning, it was empty, and Ripper regaled them with stories of vampires and magic. 

"Enough of that. So…what are your hopes for the future?"

Up until this point, they had been listening to the man's tales of daring do in silent reverential awe, so they were rather taken by surprise when he addressed them directly. Nigel gave an embarrassed shrug, but Wesley somehow managed to gather his wits and answer the question appropriately; a response learned by rote at an early age.

"Watcher to an active Slayer, of course." What else was he there for? His father would settle for nothing less.

"That what you really want?" Giles looked hard at him and he felt himself blushing. Again.

"It's what I'm supposed to do." He felt a little uncomfortable; this was bridging into Father-Will-Kill-Me territory.

"Working with a Slayer now bears little similarity to what is written in the Chronicles, you know. Watchers make them into weapons, but they're still girls. We can't kidnap them any more, as they did in medieval times."

Nigel asked the question they had discussed among themselves, but never had the balls to ask a teacher. "Why are Slayers so young? I mean, the current active Slayer, she's our age."

Mr. Giles took his glasses off and polished them. "That's a good question, Nigel. I've looked into it, in the course of my researches, and I think there are two explanations. The first goes back to the apocryphal First Slayer. At that time, people didn't live very long, so they obviously chose a girl who was physically mature, but not yet a mother. About thirteen or so."

"Thirteen!" Wesley was shocked. Thirteen was…a child.

"Exactly. Thirteen. These days, it's probably because teenagers have no concept of their own mortality. Give them strength, speed, stamina, and supernatural healing, and they believe that they will live forever, that nothing can stop them. And nothing will, until the end."

"So…they don't grow up. Have families and all that." Nigel sounded a little sad.

"Some do. Nicki Wood in New York had a little boy."

"But she got killed. By Spike; William the Bloody." _Who almost killed my father…before I was born,_ Wesley added silently. A strangely sobering thought. There but for fortune…

"Yes."

Silence. The three considered the fate of the one girl in all the world chosen to protect against the darkness, who would never grow up, never grow old, never live a normal life. But then, what was a normal life?

Quietly, Mr. Giles said, "That's why Slayers need Watchers. They don't have anyone else."

The dryer dinged.

"Ah, there's your clothes."

* * *

They had just enough time to head back to the flat to change before piling into Mr. Giles' creaky VW Beetle (held together with band stickers and electrical tape), in order to get to the Mornington Crescent station in time. As they stood by the car, Mr. Giles shook their hands solemnly. 

"Wes, Nigel, it was a pleasure meeting you both. And, in honour of the occasion," he brought out a small, slightly battered radio with a dual tape player. "A replacement for the one so cruelly lost to the forces of bureaucracy."

The boys gasped. Wesley was astounded—a double tape deck! They could make mix tapes, and maybe even use it for language practice!

With a wave and a smile, the two formerly lost lambs walked into the train station.

Ripper lit up a cigarette and considered Travers. "Dante Club. You bloody bastard. No wonder you needed me to finish those translations on a Sunday."

A quick stop at the ticket counter revealed that their train tickets had been turned in, apparently just that very morning, by someone who found them in the gutter. Still, Wesley gripped his ticket tightly, to keep it from vanishing altogether. Once on the train, Wesley and Nigel leaned back and let out a sigh of relief.

"We made it. We didn't get beaten up or killed or turned into vampires," Nigel pushed his bag under the seat. "And you beat a hustler in the most amazing game of darts ever!"

"I think he may have been more than a hustler. Didn't you think it odd that you just blurted things out?" Wesley frowned. They didn't have much training in magic, not until sixth form, but they did learn some mental discipline. "We should practice when we get back. You know, wards and suchlike."

"Like we'll ever be in that situation again!"

"You never know, Nigel. Besides, we don't want to let slip what really happened this weekend."

"But Wes, we got to stay with Ripper!" Nigel's voice held a petulant note.

The sheer status by association was sorely tempting, but Wesley was adamant. "Not a word. To anyone. If Banger got wind of this, just imagine the walloping we'd get."

Nigel's face drained completely of blood. "I didn't think about that…"

Wesley pulled out his journal. "Let's get our story straight before anything else."

Together, they decided exactly what Granny Parke served for tea and supper, what colour the sheets were, and what the church sermon was about that morning. It was completely believable and completely unlike the weekend they had actually experienced.

"Do you have a pin or needle?" Wesley asked.

"What for?"

"A blood oath. We must swear to never reveal what really happened this weekend. Not only would we be in deep trouble at school, but I bet my father would kill both of us. It's for our own protection."

Slowly, Nigel nodded. "A blood oath."

Fishing through their belongings, though, brought them nothing sharp. Not even a safety pin. However, while looking under the makeshift stakes, Wesley got a splinter that bled profusely. He pulled out the stakes. "What about these—I'm bleeding enough."

Nigel eyed the bits of crate rather dubiously. "They look sharp enough, but –" he looked a little worried. "Are you sure it's sanitary?"

"Nigel, it's a blood oath. It's not supposed to be sanitary!"

Grimacing, Nigel nodded and stabbed his finger with part of the stake. Using a dried out fountain pen, they signed their names to the account. "No one would ever believe us anyway."

Later, Wesley got change from the snack cart and gave Nigel half of the thirty pounds. At first, Nigel refused to take the money. "Wes, you won it fair and square!"

"Nigel, you are my best mate. Plus, you lost all your money. It's only right; we were in this whole thing together."

Grudgingly, Nigel agreed. Wesley was glad. He felt a little warm and lightheaded, and, judging from the slightly hectic flush on his face, Nigel was feeling much the same.

"Think we'll be friends always, Wes?"

"I'm sure we will, Nige."

The train pulled into the station in Hampshire, and the boys stumbled back to their mundane life, certain that they would never forget their strange, scary, wonderful weekend in London.


	6. Wild Boys

**TITLE: **Babes in the Wood

AUTHORS: Eloise and Bethy

**RATING: **PG13

**DISCLAIMER: **Joss and ME own Wes and all things BtVS/AtS. We're only playing with him. We promise not to hurt him. Much. Nigel is a product of Eloise's fevered imagination.

**SPOILERS: **Set post AtS S5, but no real spoilers.

**NOTES**: Part 6 of 6.Baby Watchers, lost in London. Huge hugs to our lovely beta Lonely Brit. It was such fun writing this story, and we're sad to say goodbye to our teenage watchers...

Title quote from traditional folk song; chapter titles and quotes from various Duran Duran songs. After all, it is the eighties…

**Part 6 – Wild Boys**

_They tried to break us,  
Looks like they'll try again _

Wild boys never lose it  
Wild boys never chose this way  
Wild boys never close your eyes  
Wild boys always shine

_(Wild Boys –Duran Duran)_

"What have you two boys been up to this weekend?" Matron folded her arms and eyed them sternly.

Their ability to answer was slightly hindered by the fact that they had thermometers wedged firmly between their lips. Matron peered at the watch that was pinned to her starched bosom and nodded decisively.

"There. You're done." She whisked the thermometers out and held them up to the light. "A hundred and two. Well, you are actually sick then."

They both nodded weakly, having suffered the indignity of being force-fed castor oil; Matron's patented method of weeding out any malingerers who dared to fake illness in order to get out of class. Though in Matron's books, any symptoms other than actual clinical death counted as malingering.

"I suppose I'll have to telephone The Doctor."

They could actually hear the capitalization of his title; The Doctor was only called to the sanatorium for the most serious of cases; broken limbs, signing of death certificates; that sort of thing. Matron turned on her heel and sailed out of the san, leaving them alone for the first time since they had passed out within minutes of each other at Sunday tea.

"Oh God, Nigel. My father is going to kill me," Wesley croaked desperately, then flopped back against his pillow, his breathing shallow and hoarse.

"I'd pay him to kill me right now. Someone kill me. Please." Nigel wiped the film of sweat from his brow and felt his index finger throb painfully. "I told you those stakes weren't sanitary…" He looked over to the other bed, where Wesley was cradling his hand carefully against the sheet.

"What are we going to tell them?" A voice of pure despair from Wesley.

"I… hang on, let me think for a bit." Nigel looked down at his own finger, which appeared to be throbbing in some sort of salsa rhythm. "I know. Granny wanted us to chop some fire wood, and we got splinters, and…and they got infected," he finished faintly.

"Nigel, that's sheer bloody genius!" Wesley tried to sit up, made it to his elbows and then swayed dizzily, his eyes rolling back in his head before finally fainting.

Nigel closed his own eyes and wished for a similar fate.

* * *

The Doctor finished dressing the afflicted finger, then removed a thermometer from his bag and shoved it unceremoniously into his mouth, motioning for Matron to do the same to Wesley. 

"That should do the trick, Matron. They're very lucky boys."

Clearly this was some strange definition of the word lucky that Nigel had yet to discover in the OED.

"The infection is fairly mild, and will only require a course of antibiotics. We won't need to treat it intravenously, so the boys can remain here in the sanatorium." He pulled the thermometer out of Nigel's mouth. "Ah, down to a hundred and one. The first dose taking effect already."

Nigel winced in remembrance. The dose had been administered in the form of an injection to his backside, delivered by a needle more suited to knitting than inoculation. He wasn't keen on repeating that experience any time in the near future.

"I'll leave a course for each of the boys, Matron. Twice a day for five days. I think that should do it."

There was a soft but heartfelt groan from the vicinity of Wesley's bed, which assured Nigel that Wes had suffered a similar fate.

"They're to remain in bed, though, Matron. I think it would be best if they stayed in the sanatorium for the week. Just until they regain their strength."

Nigel's heart leapt. Okay, so they would be under the rather dubious care of Matron, but still, a whole week of lazing in bed wasn't unwelcome. Especially after the rather overexciting weekend they'd just experienced.

Matron nodded stiffly, clearly still under the impression that they had somehow faked the infection. "Very well, Doctor. I'll see that your orders are carried out."

Nigel glanced over to Wesley's bed, and caught his eye. Wesley gave him a weak smile, and made a pathetic attempt at a thumbs up signal. Nigel grinned back and closed his eyes. All things considered, this wasn't a bad way to complete their adventure.

* * *

Nigel threw himself onto his bed and sighed in contentment. "I never thought I'd say this, but it's good to be back." He stretched his hand out and wiggled his newly unbandaged finger. 

"How's it feel?" Wesley's voice floated out from under his bed in an eerily disembodied manner.

"Right as Rayne." Nigel grinned at his pun, and Wesley giggled as he slid out from under his bed.

"It's still there." Nigel breathed a sigh of relief. They'd just had time to hide the tape deck before Sunday tea, and had spent the week in the San worrying that it might be discovered.

"Thank God. We can listen to it tomorrow afternoon and record the top forty."

Wesley sat down on his bed and pushed his glasses onto the bridge of his nose. "That was possibly the best weekend of my life so far, Nige."

"Me too, Wes." Nigel gave a wistful sigh. "I just wish we could tell that we met Ripper."

Wesley shook his head decisively. "We can't. It would be so cool, but they'd find out about not going to your Granny's, and they'd never believe us."

Nigel nodded philosophically. "I suppose you're right. Wouldn't want to earn ourselves a Travers, would we?"

They both cracked up at that, giggling so wildly that they didn't hear their study bedroom door open.

"Pryce! ffoulkes!"

Now there was a voice they hadn't missed during their week in the san. The senior prefect stood in the doorway, his arms folded, a worryingly superior smirk on his face. With some difficulty, they managed to stop laughing and stood by their beds.

"Come on, Evans. We just got out of san. Matron says we're excused Saturday room inspection." Wesley was trying really hard not to sound smug, Nigel gave him that.

"I'm not here for room inspection." The self-satisfied smile grew wider, and Nigel felt his heart sink. "McCrea wants to see both of you. In his evening study."

The sense of déjà vu was depressing in the extreme. Evans turned on his heel and strolled off, and Nigel and Wesley exchanged a look of bafflement.

"What now?" Wesley leaned over and peered under the bed again. "The radio's definitely where we left it... " He sat back up again. "Unless… unless they found it and left it there to lull us into a false sense of security."

"Do you think Ripper might have… told on us?" Nigel hated to voice the thought, but he couldn't imagine any other possibility.

"No." Wesley's voice was firm. "He wouldn't do that. He's a man of honour." He considered this for a moment. "Okay, so he got involved in black magic and stuff and he knows burglars and session musicians, but still…"

"You're right. There's no way he would tell. Unless… unless the council found out and tortured him till he broke…"

Nigel had a brief but heartwarming vision of Mr Giles in a darkened room; his jaw set firm as he struggled to ignore the sound of wooden spoon meeting Travers' rear end.

"Hit him as hard as you like, I'll never talk…" Vision Ripper hissed through gritted teeth.

"Nigel, don't be ridiculous. Ripper would never break." Wesley nodded with certainty, then sighed deeply. "I suppose we'd best get it over with. Come on."

They made their way to evening study with heavy hearts and heavier tread. When they reached the door, Nigel gave a gulp and glanced at Wesley, who squared his shoulders manfully, then knocked at the door.

After a short silence, during which they both experienced a brief fleeting moment of euphoria at their unexpected reprieve, they were ordered to enter.

"Ah, Wyndam-Pryce, ffoulkes. How kind of you to take up my invitation."

Nigel looked at Wesley in dismay. The sardonic quality of his tone was not lost on either of them. And the rather conspicuous presence of the cane on Dr McCrea's desk did nothing to alleviate their apprehension.

"I've just received a very interesting telephone call, gentlemen."

A list of possible callers, in order of increasing implausibility flashed through Nigel's mind. The list included such illustrious names as Rupert Giles, Ethan Rayne, Algernon from the Dante Club, Quentin Travers, the pretty French girl that Giles had stood up to look after them. Even Col, the bass playing milkman's son, was a possibility.

"Your grandmother rang, Mr ffoulkes."

"Granny! Is she alright?" The words were out before he could stop them. "I mean, how is she, since we saw her last week…"

"Well. To be honest, she seems rather worried. It could have something to do with the fact that she was expecting her grandson and his friend to stay this morning."

Dr McCrea paused briefly, and Nigel wondered if he was as pale as Wesley looked.

"I was, frankly, rather surprised that she would invite you both to stay so soon after your last visit, and I told her as much. As you can well imagine, Granny was also rather surprised, considering that while you were supposedly staying with her last Saturday evening, she was spending a relaxing long weekend in Margate."

Wesley gave a faint gasp, and Nigel felt his knees wobble dangerously.

"I was wondering if you boys would care to enlighten me as to your whereabouts last weekend?" Dr McCrea sat back in his chair, and flashed them a deceptively pleasant smile.

Nigel looked over at Wesley, who returned his panic-stricken gaze. They couldn't get Mr Giles into trouble with the council for not turning them in; they just couldn't. And if it became known that they had not only frequented a club of questionable moral repute, but also played darts in a pub for cash, it would be unlikely that either of them would be allowed to remain at the Academy. And then Wesley's dad really would kill him.

"Sir, we're very sorry." Wesley sounded incredibly convincing. "We shouldn't have gone without permission.'

Nigel stared at Wesley, his brow furrowed. What was he playing at?

"There was this concert, you see, sir. Duran Duran, at Wembley…"

Nigel almost gasped at the audacity of Wesley's lie. It was bloody brilliant. And Old Banger was falling for it. He stood up very deliberately and lifted the cane from the desk, tapping it lightly against his palm.

"I see. And whose idea was this little escapade?" He swished the cane gently, making a few practice strokes.

They answered as one "Mine."

Then grinned ruefully at each other.

"Very well, gentlemen. " Dr McCrea was unimpressed by their display of solidarity. "I don't know… it's Rupert Giles all over again."

It was something of an effort, but Nigel managed to contain the manic and somewhat self destructive desire to giggle insanely at their housemaster's exasperated comment.

At least until Wesley burst out laughing.

* * *

_**Present Day**_

"You actually laughed?" There was a look of genuine disbelief on Giles' face.

"As you can imagine, it didn't go down all that well." Nigel sat back in the armchair and took another sip of tea.

"No, I imagine not. Why didn't you just tell him that you'd stayed with me?"

It amazed Nigel that even after all these years he could still blush at the thought. "Well, we didn't want to get you in trouble. What with you being… well, with your reputation…"

Giles very politely tried not to laugh. "Ah. You supposed I would be court-martialed for aiding and abetting two fugitives from justice."

Nigel groaned his affirmation, and dropped his head onto his hands. "We were complete idiots."

"But very selfless courageous idiots." There was no trace of mockery in Giles' voice. "I do appreciate your sincere if albeit unnecessary attempts to keep me out of trouble."

"Comes of reading too much Dickens."

Giles nodded sagely. "Wesley never quite lost that tendency. Trying to do the far far better thing…" he broke off, and studied his tea cup. "Did you have much contact with him after he went to America?"

Nigel blushed, but this time it was shame at his neglect. "We lost touch after he… left Sunnydale. I'd heard that he was working with the souled vampire in Los Angeles, and then with that law firm."

"It rankles, doesn't it?" Giles spoke softly now. "A Watcher, working with the very creatures we've been brought up to despise…"

Nigel was on his feet. "Mr Giles, I'm very grateful to you for this promotion, but I'm not willing to sit here and listen to you criticize my friend. Wesley was a good man; he knew right from wrong. And in the end he proved that. And to be honest, I think it's rather shabby of you to speak ill of the dead."

"Nigel, sit down." Giles smiled gently. "Just checking."

There was a movement behind him and Nigel turned to see a ghost.

"W… W…Wesley…" he managed to stutter, shoving his hand into his jacket pocket on reflex. "But you're d…d…dead…"

Nigel wasn't sure what shocked him most, the resurrection of the man he'd believed dead, or the change in his appearance wrought by his death. Perhaps one didn't require glasses and a three piece suit in the afterlife. Though judging by his five o'clock shadow, shaving was clearly indicated…

The ghost grinned. "Well, Nigel, at least my father didn't kill me…"

Nigel face hardened as he pulled out a thin stake. "If you are what I think you are, he might just try anyway."

The smile faded. "Although ironically, I did at one point actually kill him. Or at least a pretty convincing copy."

"Wesley." There was a chiding note in Giles' voice, and then he turned to Nigel. "He's not a vampire, or even a ghost. I'm afraid he's very much alive." Giles looked at him over the top of his glasses. "The Council has gone through a period of change recently, but we haven't become so lax that we allow vampires to wander unattended through our secret headquarters."

Nigel felt his blush grow deeper, but Giles' attention was back on Wesley. "Speaking of unattended vampires, where are they?"

Wesley gave a sheepish grin and winked over at Nigel.

That was it. He'd had enough. "I'm sorry for interrupting, but what the hell is going on?" He was surprised to find himself waving his finger at Rupert Giles, _for God's sake_. "You call me up here for a chat about old times, to reminisce about the dearly departed, and then I find out he's not even nearly departed. It's just not on."

He finished with an emphatic hand gesture that he realized was him waving his career goodbye.

Giles, however, was smiling tolerantly. "You really ought to sit down, Nigel."

The door opened again. "Did I miss anything?"

"Ethan, you're just in time."

* * *

"So Wesley contacted you to do some research into the Circle of the Black Thorn." Nigel was nursing three fingers of single malt; this particular tale had been deemed worthy of a stronger accompaniment than tea.

"And I got in touch with Ethan." Giles narrowed his eyes. "Much as it pains me to admit it."

Ethan was grinning broadly. "Bunch of self-important acolytes. Course I couldn't refuse old Ripper here a favour."

"And you helping had absolutely bugger all to do with the little vendetta you and Cyrius Vail had over the Wolfram and Hart contract." Giles sneered.

"Second rate bloody charlatan. Baby Watcher over here can testify to his shoddy workmanship. Orlon Window my arse." Ignoring the look of horrified shock on Wesley's face, Ethan continued unabashed. "It was a simple glamour, child's play really, to make the Baby Watcher play dead."

"I'd really appreciate you not calling me that again. Ever." There was a subtle hint of warning in Wesley's voice, and Nigel blinked in surprise. He was amazed at the casual banter between the men; Wesley was completely at ease with both Ripper and Rayne. To the extent that Rayne seemed to be taking the warning note quite seriously.

"Right, right, sorry." Ethan waved his hand in a conciliatory manner. "Just a figure of speech. Anyway, I tricked Vail into thinking he'd killed Wesley, and I was about to finish him off, when in the Ice Queen cometh and decapitated the old bugger herself. And after that it turned into your typical series of comic misunderstandings."

"It's nice to have your death scene reduced to the level of a French farce." Wesley commented dryly, pouring another measure of whiskey into his tumbler.

"Well, you have to admit, the expressions on their faces when we turned up in the alley were priceless." Ethan gave another wicked grin. "No pun intended."

Nigel knew this bit. There'd been an epic battle in downtown L.A.; the forces of darkness against the forces of… well you couldn't exactly call the ex CEO and department heads of Wolfram Hart the forces of light, but still… They'd won the day, evil had been defeated, and the whole thing had been promptly forgotten by everyone, thanks to some very nifty work in the Council's newly formed Enchantment and Sorcery department.

"It was rather entertaining." Wesley smiled in remembrance. "Angel actually dropped his sword. Twice."

Giles brow furrowed slightly. "You never answered my question, Wesley. Where are your erstwhile colleagues?"

Again came the quiet cough. "Gunn's down in the hydro; I thought he could do with a bit of physical therapy."

"The others? Illyria, Angel and Spike?" Giles raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

There was a wicked gleam in Wesley's eye as he looked first at Ethan, then back to Giles and Nigel.

"Oh, yes. Ethan and I sent them on a sight-seeing trip."

"The lesser spotted London." Ethan nodded in mock seriousness.

"I suppose you could say it's a little off the beaten track…" Wesley grinned broadly at Nigel.

* * *

Angel and Spike were halfway down the dark staircase, while, at the top of the stairs, Illyria was in deep conversation with the owner of the club, a rather matronly blonde woman in her early forties. 

"I do not require employment. I am Illyria, god king of the universe. Men tremble at my wrath."

"Oh, I'm sure they do. And I love the outfit. Post-modern bondage wear's very popular this year."

"What did Wesley say again?" Angel turned to Spike.

"Said he came here when he was younger. Place is supposed to have an atmosphere." Spike shook his head sadly. "Hate to say it, but I don't hold out much hope. Percy doesn't strike me as the type who ran wild as a teenager. Head Boy and all that."

Angel nodded. "Uptight doesn't begin to describe him." He sighed as they reached the bottom of the stairs. "Look, we'll just have a couple of drinks and then tell him we…" he broke off as they turned the corner. "…are in hell."

Spike nodded appreciatively. "Well, it seems Perce is a bit of a dark horse."

Angel just closed his eyes. Then opened them as a hand came down on his arm.

"Oh dear; out of uniform, boys?" The prefect gave him a nasty smile and patted his backside proprietarily.

"Assume the position."


End file.
